Beauty by Lisa Daily Page B

“Much.”
    “Cool, let’s try it again. I bet it helps.”
    It didn’t.
    No matter how hard I tried, my limbs just kept failing me. My arms went in one direction; my legs went in another. My brain said jump ; my legs went crouch . My brain said hit ; my arms went drop . It was like my limbs weren’t mine at all, but some rebel entity, intent on destroying any last chance I had at impressing Hudson. On the other side of the net, Hudson was struggling not to laugh. “So just in case you forgot, Molly, the goal of the game is to actually hit the birdie,” he joked.
    “Oh, really?” I deadpanned. “So that’s where I’m going wrong.” As if to punctuate my sentence, I missed yet another shot, letting the birdie tumble helplessly to the ground. I thrust my arms into the air, making a V for victory. “One drop!” I cheered.
    Hudson burst out laughing. “If we’re playing points for drops, then you’re officially a pro by now.” He hit me another shot and I promptly dropped it.
    “I’d be happy to give you pointers,” I offered sweetly. I couldn’t believe how normally I was talking to Hudson, like we did this all the time. But when he wasn’t standing right next to me, turning me into a big ball of shivers, he was actually easy to talk to.
    Hudson laughed. “Okay, get ready, Molly. I’m going to send you a shot that even you can’t miss.”
    I raised my eyebrows at him. “Uh, have you met me, Hudson?”
    He gave me a look. “Just get ready. You can get this, I promise.”
    “Whatever you say.” I gripped my racquet tightly, holding it out in front of me. “All right, ready,” I declared.
    Carefully, Hudson took aim. And he was right; the shot he sent me was perfect. It was high, it was slow, and it was heading directly toward my racquet. I could get this. I lunged forward, keeping my eyes glued to the birdie. Pulling my racquet back, I aimed and— smash —I made contact! The birdie rocketed over the net, shooting right past Hudson, right past the court—and right into Mr. Templeton. It hit him smack in the middle of his sweaty forehead, then bounced off, tumbling silently to the floor.
    “Molly!” Mr. Templeton boomed. “ What was that?”
    I opened and closed my mouth, no sound coming out. I could feel my face reddening, as I fumbled for an answer. “I, uh—” I began.
    “I’m pretty sure,” Hudson cut in, walking around the net until he was standing next to me. “That that was a bull’s-eye.” He smiled easily at Mr. Templeton. “What do you think? Extra-credit points for our team?”
    Mr. Templeton blew out a breath, shaking his head slowly. But the corners of his mouth were turning up in what almost looked like a smile. “In the future, Miss Davis, would you please refrain from using my head for target practice?” I nodded. “Now,” he said, rubbing a little at the spot where the birdie had nailed him. “Thankfully, this class is almost over. Everyone go ahead and put your equipment away!”
    “Thanks,” I said gratefully as Hudson and I returned our racquets to the equipment box.
    “Oh no, thank you ,” he replied. “I think that was the most entertaining thing I’ve ever seen in gym class.”
    “Glad to be of service.”
    “I mean, who knew,” he continued, “that our very own Molly Davis was some kind of racquet-wielding hit man.”
    I smiled sheepishly at him. “Death by birdie does happen to be my specialty.”
    Hudson laughed. “Remind me never to play darts with you.”
    The bell rang for the end of class and we headed into the hallway. “So,” Hudson said, pausing outside the door. In the bright, florescent light of the hallway, I could see tiny specks of green in his brown eyes. “I guess I’ll see you later? Try not to assault any more teachers in the meantime,” he added with a smile.
    I smiled back at him. “I’ll try,” I said. “But I can’t make any promises.”
    Two periods later, I headed into the Cletus B. Morgan Student Cafeteria,